


things you weren't meant to keep

by slyther_ing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: @ self stop writing sad things, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Death isn't described in detail, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Quidditch Injuries, Rating for one slight sex scene, Time Skips, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 12:22:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9234803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slyther_ing/pseuds/slyther_ing
Summary: saudade :i. an emptinessii. when something that should be in a particular moment is missingiii. the love that remainsOr - Marcus Flint and Oliver Wood, until there's nothing left be written.





	

Marcus is sweltering in the dark suit, and he doesn’t know which one is more suffocating – the sniffling coming from the crowd or the fact that Oliver is next to him, completely silent.

“He was so young,” Marcus hears one of the middle aged witches say, dapping at her eyes. “It’s such a tragedy.”

Besides him, Oliver doesn’t move.

***

“So that’s that,” is what Oliver greets him with the moment Marcus steps into the empty locker room. “I won.”

Marcus just looks back at him, unsure of what Wood’s getting at. The trophy sitting pretty by Oliver’s feet could tell Marcus that – the _game_ they just played could tell Marcus that.

“Yeah,” Marcus replies, “I played the match. I kinda got that.”

Oliver parts his lips, almost says something, but nothing comes out after a moment of contemplation. Marcus isn’t sure what the rules of congratulations are – congratulations, you won. Congratulations, you beat me. Congratulations, you’ve finally done what you’ve wanted to do.

Congratulations – this is the last time we’ll meet in the air.

“Cheers” is all Marcus grumbles, before shucking off his Quidditch robes and tugging at the ties of his boots. They’re grimy, the mud and dirt caking off on his fingers. Soiling the skin and smearing across his palms. One of the ties remains stubborn, stuck in a knot no matter how hard he tugs and Marcus curses, because he just wants to strip down and get underneath the hot shower, wash away the remains of anger and upset over the championship.

“Marcus.” Oliver’s voice rings clear in the locker room, and his boots step into Marcus’ line of vision.

He glances up, Oliver’s face blurry at the weird angle. “What?”

“Stand up.”

He does.

“What?” Marcus says again.

And then Oliver kisses him with a softness yet unmatched. Marcus’ mouth moves on instinct, from practice, lets Oliver press closer and he almost runs his fingers through Wood’s hair before he realizes that he’s still dirty with grime and sweat.

“What do you want, Wood?” He asks, no harm meant. Curious. Holding in his own desires with bated breath.

“To keep going.” Oliver murmurs, already halfway back to reclaiming Marcus’ lips.

Marcus exhales, lets him. The trophy gleams like a promise from the corner of his eye.

***

“You got it.” Oliver says the moment they turn off of Diagon Alley, down a little darkened alleyway.

“Why’d you assume that?”

Oliver tangles his own fingers loosely in Marcus’, and their hands sway a bit as they walk down. Marcus pulls him in closer as the alley narrows. “Your eye twitches when you’re angry.”

“It’s not twitching now?”

“No,” and Oliver steps a bit quicker, to cut him off from walking. “No, and you’re grinning, and you still want to talk to me, so I assume that means they offered you the reserve spot?”

“Smart.” Marcus says, lets the grin unfold across his face, and Oliver’s responding smile makes his already giddy heart even giddier.

***

“You know,” Marcus tells Oliver, smoothing out the tensed muscles of Oliver’s back, “Sometimes I feel like you think you’re invincible.”

“And I think you worry too much.” Oliver chides back, nudging him with his free hand. He presses a light kiss against Marcus’ cheek, relaxes at another deep press. His head lolls back, hair tickling Marcus’ hands as they continue kneading the muscles. The Puddlemere jersey is rolled up to his shoulders, the stretch of smooth bare skin tantalizing beneath Marcus’ fingers – but he’s too bothered to be distracted, right now.

“Just watch yourself, alright?” Marcus presses on a particular point and earns a hiss from the man in front of him. “See?”

Oliver leans back further, interrupting Marcus’ massage. Instead, it forces Marcus to wrap him up in his arms. “Alright, love.”

***

Marcus pants as Oliver’s fingers work their magic, lifting his hips to get a better angle.

“Be patient.” Oliver laughs.

Marcus can’t help the groan from escaping his throat, “You’ve been – _fuck_ – teasing for ages.”

Oliver leans up to kiss him, dragging his teeth against Marcus’ bottom lip. It’s a worthy distraction to the pent up need and arousal that’s thrumming in Marcus’ veins.

“C’mon, Flint. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

It’s a Sunday morning, their bedroom filled with the lazy rays of a hazy sun. Marcus flings an arm over his eyes as Oliver continues prepping him in that slow-deliberate way, but he really can’t argue with Oliver’s logic.

***

“Don’t do that,” Oliver exclaims, voice clogged up and eyes still running, “You can’t - I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“S’just an injury.” Marcus mumbles, and his mouth is thick and clammy, can barely peek out through the bandages wrapped around his head. He reaches out with his uninjured hand, and Oliver is immediately there, holding him and rubbing soothing circles against the back of his palm. There’s a light fluttering kiss pressed to his knuckle, and he knows Oliver’s resisting the urge to swoop him into a bone-breaking hug right now.

Not that he needs any more bones to break.

“You know what that was like? Watching you fall off your broom like that? Merlin, Flint.” Oliver sighs, leaning back but still not letting go. “How’re we gonna get you home now?”

Marcus just grunts, the potions for pain and calm kicking in and making him all hazy. He starts to drift off into another bout of sleep, room fading out into just the twinkling lights on the ceiling.

“Don’t leave me, alright?” he vaguely hears Oliver say, “I love you.”

***

“What’s wrong?”

Marcus hadn’t even made it through the first bite of dinner before Oliver’s asking. It’s probably better that way – his throat feels all glued up, anyways, has been ever since his father looked him straight in the eye three hours ago. The food wouldn’t go down even if he’d tried to choke.

“Marcus,” Oliver says, holding his palm open, an offer, but Marcus doesn’t go to take it. Oliver retracts his hand after a moment. “You can tell me.”

The bite of mashed potato sticks in his mouth, and it feels sick, the way it goes down. Oliver just keeps gazing warily at him, little wrinkles in his brow the standard sign of concern.

“The papers,” Marcus croaks, “Did you see the papers?”

Oliver opens his mouth, then closes it. “I – yeah. I did.”

Marcus shoves his plate away in explanation, grips the fork so tight the handle leaves an indent in his palm. “Yeah. My father’s a little too happy about that.”

Oliver pushes his own plate out of the way, grabs Marcus’ hands in his own. “It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine, we’re players. Quidditch has nothing to do with politics.”

Marcus just stares at Oliver’s firm assumption. Because Quidditch may have nothing to do with it – but their names do.

***

The safe house is in the middle of nowhere. Marcus looks at it, stares at the white trimmed windows and the beige walls and the nice sloping roof and wonders how something with such a heavy purpose could look so normal.

“Aren’t you going to come in?” Oliver calls, voice too cheerful and that’s the only reason why he knows Wood is shaken. There were slamming doors and urgent whispers and they’d all been ushered off the pitch in double time, and Marcus’ thoughts had spun from what plays would be the best to get past Oliver’s new defense, to _where are you_ , to _please let him be alright._

They’d made it out, but there was no place to go – flat too dangerous for a Flint who refused.

There was no place to go, or so he thought, because Oliver had been one step ahead, and that was the only reason they weren’t dead yet, really. The safe house he’d been apparated to, and now here they are, ready to hole up and wait it out.

“Marcus.”

He stops staring at the wind chimes, only to realize that Oliver is now in front of him.

“M’coming,” Marcus mumbles, but Oliver takes his hand, and pulls him in, anyways. There’s a duality to it that unsettles him – they’re walking into both a sanctuary and a prison. It leaves a bitter taste in his already dry mouth.

The kitchen is small, as is the couch, and the bedroom, and the little coffee table. Everything feels miniaturized – temporary. It’s either just one spot for them to wait at, or fleeting because they don't have much time left.

“Stop it,” Oliver frowns, tone snappy and obviously at the end of his own tether, “I know what you’re thinking. You’ll be fine here. We’ll be alright here.”

Marcus reaches for Oliver in apology, and he’s rewarded with the familiar feeling of the man in his arms. Oliver’s hair smells like locker room soap, and the freshly cut grass of the pitch, and so many bright, beautiful things that are just going to be memories for the next extended period of time.

He wonders how long they’re going to have to stay here.

***

“Why’d you refuse?”

Marcus lifts his head up from the pillow, knocking Oliver’s hand away in the process. “Why’d I _refuse_?”

“The Puddlemere offer, you bastard,” Oliver huffs, shoving Marcus’ head back down so he can resume playing with Marcus’ hair, “Not – the other thing.”

“Oh.” Marcus responds, before trying to remember the answer. Trying to form the words. Oliver just looks at him patiently, curiously. They’d never talked about it, not after Marcus had accepted the Magpies in its stead. But they’ve talked about a lot of things now, in the safe-house. There’s only so much one can do, being inside like this for so long.

“I guess I just never imagined playing on the same team as you. Never thought that would be a thing.”

Oliver cocks his head, rests it on his fist as he contemplates Marcus’ face. “I’d have liked it, though.”

“Sure,” Marcus shrugs, shifting closer to Oliver’s warmth because the heating in the safe house is shoddy at best, and it’s snowing outside. Oliver wriggles his toes. “But I guess I wanted to have you as competition.”

“Yeah?”

Marcus leans in. “Yeah – you keep me on my toes.”

Oliver smiles when they kiss.

***

“Did you see that?” Marcus hisses, back flattened against the wall by the window. Oliver tenses, but when he dares to peek outside, there’s nothing there.

Oliver shuts the curtains, checks the wards. Nothing shows up out of the usual. “You’re thinking too much. What would they want with us?”

Marcus wills his pulse to slow. Oliver’s right. He’s not the only one on the run for refusing to join. And Oliver isn’t important enough, isn’t part of whatever the resistance calls themselves now. They should be fine. They’ll be fine.

He feels unsettled, but he trusts Oliver more than himself.

***

Everything’s gone to shit.

That’s what Marcus is thinking as he runs, jabbing his wand over his shoulder. He hears Oliver’s equally quick steps somewhere beside him, but they’re both running at breakneck speed, not risking the delay in looking anywhere but forwards.

They make it back to the safe-house, but something is wrong. Something is terribly, terribly wrong.

There’s someone waiting for them at the door. In the split-second it takes for Marcus to react, to grasp Oliver’s arm and twist them away, the curse has been uttered, and the green light’s already aimed in their direction.

When he lands, Oliver is unmoving in his arms, eyes frozen and unseeing. His lips are parted as if halfway through Marcus’ name.

***

The war ends with little fanfare for Marcus. He’s not at Hogwarts when the Dark Lord falls. He’s not even paying attention, until the radio crackles to life.

No – when the war ends, Marcus is staring at Oliver’s blank face and wondering why one denial, one missing foot-soldier from the Dark Lord’s ranks should mean so much. Why they’d come after them. He would’ve been insignificant, barely pivotal in the grand scheme of things.

Instead, in retribution, he’s lost everything.

He guesses that’s what happens in war – a killing free-for-all, for whatever reason sees fit. Marcus rakes through his memories, wonders if the fact that he recognizes the face of the man standing at the doorstep so intimately is just his projections, or reality.

“Help,” he calls, carrying Oliver in his arms to the nearest street, as wizards and witches spill out, talking in excited whispers.

“Help,” he repeats, when they notice him. “Help,” he asks, even when there’s nothing left to do.

***

Faces he recognizes from school – ages ago, really – are crying in the front rows. Marcus watches them sob into each other’s shoulders. Some of them look at him oddly. Not a lot of people knew about him and Oliver.

It’s the salt in his wounds. He’s left to fester in his own grief.

Marcus doesn’t look when they close the casket. He doesn’t need to – has Oliver engrained in ever bit of his memory, every breath he takes. When they lower Oliver into the ground, Marcus almost laughs.

How terrible. For Oliver to rest, unmoving, in the earth when he spent so much time in the air.

The gravestone is smooth and grey, perfectly carved. Beloved Son and Friend. Beloved.

Marcus puts the flowers down, places the final goodbye he spent sleepless nights drafting before the funeral. Maybe the wind will carry the piece of parchment away before the rain can get to it – then it’ll be where it belongs, in the sky.

And then he leaves. Doesn’t look back.

There’s nothing left for him in the Wizarding World, anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> and then marcus wakes up from this horrendous dream and oliver is totally fine, what are you talking about, and alive and reading his Quidditch magazine right next to him, and their three healthy kids clamber into the room and – 
> 
> the thought of one of them without the other kills me, but this was asking to be written. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! You can come yell w/ me on [Tumblr](http://mxrcusflint.tumblr.com).


End file.
